


My stars all had their names

by Carry_the_Fire



Series: Fire's Ferdibert "week" 2020 [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Confessions, Ferdibert Week 2020 (Fire Emblem), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carry_the_Fire/pseuds/Carry_the_Fire
Summary: With Lady Edelgard's victory against the Church nearly at hand, Hubert writes a letter.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Fire's Ferdibert "week" 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871365
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	My stars all had their names

**Author's Note:**

> For Ferdibert Week day 1: Confessions.
> 
> My Ferdibert Week is going to be more like a Ferdibert Quarter. Life hasn't allowed a lot of time for writing lately.

Garreg Mach Monastery lies quiet under a thin sliver of the Great Tree Moon. In a few hours, when dawn comes and the Imperial Army marches for Fhirdiad, every courtyard will bustle with the clanking of armor, the clamoring of voices, the clipped movements of soldiers and their mounts. But for now, on a windless night, it’s just the rustling of Hubert’s cape as he makes his way from his office to the dormitories.

It’s already quite late, but Hubert knows he has one more task to accomplish before he can rest tonight. As he crests the stairs to the upper hallway, he’s glad to see no light spilling from beneath any of the doors. Too many times lately he’s caught Ferdinand or Lady Edelgard up at this hour, laboring over some detail of their work. Valuable as their efforts are, neither is as accustomed as Hubert to forgoing sleep, and both will be needed at their best when the sun and the Empire rise.

Hubert unlocks the door to his room. He steps inside, shucking his cape as he shuts it behind him. His things are already packed for the journey ahead, tomes and vials and spymaster’s journal tucked into the compartments of the leather satchel that sits on the trunk at the foot of his bed. In his desk drawer wait paper and quill, inkwell and seal: everything he’ll need for his final preparation.

Taking a seat, Hubert retrieves his tools, takes a deep breath, and begins to write.

* * *

_ Ferdinand, _

_ If you are reading these words, then Her Majesty’s victory over the false church is complete, and the war is won.  _

* * *

The road to Fhirdiad is long, and the Imperial Army stretches for miles along it. Hubert rides alongside Lady Edelgard, her myrmidons ringing his sorcerers as they advance slowly, conserving their energy for the battle ahead. Hubert’s eyes flick up and down their ranks, comb through the trees that line the road, and scan the skies. There is little chance that the Kingdom or the Church has the troops to spare on an ambush, but a cornered animal acts on instinct, not reason, and they certainly have Dimitri cornered now. Besides, paranoia has served Hubert well thus far.

Only one battalion rides further up than their combined ones — the Aegir Astral Knights, carrying the twin banners of the Empire and the Crest of Flames. Between the standard bearers rides their general, recognizable even at a distance by the shining marigold hair that spills over the deep blue of his cape. Hubert lets his gaze linger, taking in the easy way Ferdinand sits in the saddle, the strength with which he bears his armor, the proud angle at which he holds the Spear of Assal. 

In Hubert’s breast pocket, the letter weighs warmly.

* * *

_ I must confess I never expected to write something like this, least of all to you. I am not one to be carried away by sentiment, and I am sure you need no reminder of the terms on which our acquaintance began. Even at the Officers Academy, both of us freed from our fathers’ influence, it seems we had much growing to do before anything but animosity could hope to flourish between us.  _

_ Yet here we are, and if there were a goddess, I would offer her my sincerest thanks for that. Each time I see you in the fullness of the man you have become, I am grateful that the fates gave us the time and reason to grow beyond our adolescent pettiness. Our friendship was well worth the wait and the work. _

* * *

The rain hammers down upon the Tailtean Plain, a din of droplets against shield and platemail. Between the dark, the downpour, and the hair plastered over his eyes, Hubert is having trouble seeing more than a few meters out. But soon enough, the battlefield lights up with crackling, mystical energies as Petra’s wyvern corps dive to engage Sylvain’s dark mages, and first blood is spilled. The roars of the beasts and the screams of their riders and victims alike add to the weather’s uproar. The battle begins in earnest.

Hubert and Dorothea advance with their battalions to follow up on Petra’s assault, drawing the attention of a nearby Demonic Beast. In the blink of an eye, hoofprints thudding into the mud, Jeritza’s cavalry place themselves in the path of the monster and halt its advance. Hubert takes advantage of the creature’s distraction, hands flicking a howling Banshee spell into its unprotected belly. Before long, his soaking robes are streaked with its viscera, Petra’s wyverns are taking off to rendezvous with Bernadetta’s snipers, and Dorothea is reaching down to gently close Sylvain’s unseeing eyes. 

Hubert regrets the loss. Still, the church must fall if Fódlan is to be set free.

* * *

_ I do not think I could tell you when I first considered you a friend. Our partnership was not something I cultivated or even took note of until it was much too late to question it. One day, I suddenly found that where once I had doubted your intentions and your capabilities, I had developed an unimpeachable faith in both. I found that where once I had felt the weight of Her Majesty’s designs on my shoulders alone, the burden was lighter for being shared. I found that before I had even realized my own isolation, you had relieved it. _

_ As my work depends on a keen eye for detail, you can imagine my dismay at having something so momentous escape my notice for so long. _

* * *

As the glow of the dawn tinges the sky to the east, Hubert strikes down another of Serios’ guards and takes a moment to catch his breath. He looks across the river to where Edelgard has at last reached Dimitri. Amyr swings to meet Areadbhar in a shower of sparks, blurred by the rain; Kingdom and Empire soldiers clash on either side of them, no one daring to interfere with the dueling titans. Closer to the riverbank, Caspar and Ferdinand are locked in fierce battle with the monstrous form that was once Dedue, while Linhardt and Bernadetta fire off spells and arrows from a safer distance. The river runs dark and fast with silt and blood.

Edelgard evades another brutal swing of Dimitri’s lance, and Hubert feels the familiar urge to warp to her side. He resists it — every inch of this strategy has been mapped out, planned and torn apart and replanned again and again. Neither Lady Edelgard nor General Aegir need him more than he is needed here with Byleth and Jeritza, holding off Seiros’ reinforcements until the king falls and the Kingdom with him.

With one final glance at the two red-cloaked figures across the way, Hubert turns back to the task at hand with a Death Γ spell crackling in his palm. 

* * *

_ Yet my dismay at my oversight cannot compare to the surprise I felt when I realized the true extent of my feelings for you, Ferdinand. I had presumed that my dedication to Lady Edelgard would preclude any such sentiments from taking root in a heart like mine. But it seems that when confronted with a dedication to the Emperor that rivals my own, the soil was not so barren.  _

_ I know we have not spoken of this, and that I should feel anxious that you do not share my affections. And yet somehow, I am sure that you do. I have seen it in the way you look at me across the Council Room with a warmth and trust I have not earned. I have felt it in your deeds, in the way you prepare my coffee or seek my guidance when your own judgment is perfectly sound. I have heard it in the soft, unguarded tones you employ when we are alone.  _

_ So I do not fear your rejection, though I would certainly deserve it. I write not to ask if you will have me, but to say what I believe we have both left unsaid for too long, and allow us both to move forward. _

* * *

  
  


Dimitri falls, his madness having claimed the lives of a great number of Empire soldiers and the remainder of the Kingdom troops. The Tailtean Plain is drenched in rain and blood at their backs, littered with bodies like a monument to the bleak reality of war. The Black Eagles push towards the Immaculate One, Fhirdiad burning like a beacon around them. 

This time, Hubert takes his place beside his lady. With Byleth, Jeritza and Petra, they advance through the ash-hot boulevard while the others move to clear out the sidestreets: Caspar, Bernadetta and Linhardt to the west; Ferdinand, Dorothea and Shamir to the east. 

As he approaches the turnoff, Ferdinand turns in the saddle and finds Hubert’s gaze already waiting for him. With a grim, confident smile, he meets Hubert’s eyes, nods, and turns to lead his cavalry into the belly of the city.

Hubert fixes his eyes forward, on the monster that masquerades as a saint. His hand tightens on his tome as the Sword of the Creator begins to glow in Byleth’s grip. It is nearly time.

* * *

_ I once told myself that I would say nothing of this until I had concluded my bloody role in Lady Edelgard’s revolution. After all, the mere existence of affection, even reciprocated, is hardly justification for the dereliction of duty, and when it comes to my work in the shadows, I cannot afford to be distracted. As you know, even with the Great War behind us, this work will be far from over. There will be traitors to rout and demons to purge long after Fódlan is unified, and I must pursue them in order to ensure it stays thus.  _

_ Yet I am unwilling — or perhaps simply too weak-willed — to face an indefinite postponement of a future shared with you. If the example of our emperor and our dear professor are any guide, such an arrangement may actually benefit our work, bringing clarity and fulfillment that sharpen our focus. So I have compromised, neither making haste nor prolonging the inevitable, and chosen this moment to clarify my intentions. That it is also the eve of your birthday is a happy coincidence — it gives me some satisfaction, that you should not grow one year older without knowing the depth of my affections for you. _

* * *

Byleth’s unconscious body is heavy, arms slung over Hubert and Jeritza’s shoulders as they carry them to safety. Amyr drips with the green, coalesced blood of the Immaculate One, leaving a grisly trail as they make for the city walls with the last of the citizenry. Rhea is dead. The war is won. It is over.

They reach the camp. Jeritza slips away. Hubert and Lady Edelgard settle Byleth on the emperor’s cot, safe from harm and prying eyes, and turn to one another. It is a dizzy sort of feeling, realizing they’ve done it: the Church of Seiros is fallen; Lady Edelgard has triumphed. Fódlan’s chains are broken and her future is theirs to forge. Hubert is nearly overcome when Lady Edelgard embraces him with shaking arms, the two of them holding each other through their giddy disbelief.

At last, she pulls back, clasping his hands in her own.

“Go,” she says, giving them a gentle squeeze. She doesn’t have to say where. She knew before  _ he  _ did, he suddenly realizes as she smiles up at him, and he’s overcome once again by pride and gratitude to serve such a woman.

As he bows and takes his leave, it’s more than the thrill of victory that sets his heart racing.

“Lieutenant,” he calls out, spotting one of Ferdinand’s subordinates emerging from the medical tent. “Where might I find your general?”

The woman — a tall, broad-faced cavalier with eyes so dark they’re nearly black — points mutely toward the south end of the encampment. 

Though Ferdinand’s tent is on the western edge, and the stablery on the north, Hubert doesn’t stop to think it strange. He nods his thanks and sets off, the rising sun casting long shadows on the muddied earth. His heart hammers against the letter he’s carried, somehow intact, through Tailtean and Fhirdiad, and the words he’s carried inside for so much longer.

* * *

_ The matter is simple: I love you, Ferdinand von Aegir.  _

_ Once I saw only the stark black and white of my obligation. You brought to this foundation color and light, depth and beauty. In the earnest passion that lights your lovely eyes, in your unwavering dedication to the betterment of your person and your country, in the thrill of your unabashed laughter, you make me perceive a future I never thought possible for myself. _

_ Now that the church has fallen, if you are ready, I should like to live in the fullness of that future with you. _

* * *

Hubert finds Ferdinand under a rough canvas shelter in the very back of the encampment. His mangled chestplate rests on the ground behind his head. His spear is thrust into the earth beside it, helmet hanging on the grip. On either side of him lie a gremory Hubert recognizes and an archer he does not. The row of bodies stretches on and on.

Dorothea is there too, kneeling at Ferdinand’s side. Her head is bowed. She hasn’t noticed Hubert yet.

Hubert takes in one detail at a time, unable to perform the addition required to comprehend the scene in full:

The slight part of Ferdinand’s lips, flecked with crimson.

The limp curl of the callused hand clasped between both of Dorothea’s.

The paleness of his normally sun-kissed skin, exposed between the wide rips in his blood-soaked undershirt.The thick, jagged line of crudely knitted flesh that runs from hip to clavicle, telling of Faith rendered too late or with insufficient skill.

Hubert stares down with uncomprehending eyes, as though he hasn’t seen a dead body before. 

* * *

_ You once told me that you found praise alarming on my lips, and requested I put any such things in a letter. I have complied to the best of my ability. I hope it is to your satisfaction.  _

_ To be clear, I do not expect you to reply in writing. In fact, having much dreamed about your response, I can say with confidence that none of my favorite possibilities involve anything so restrained or time-consuming as a letter.  _

* * *

  
  


“Hubert,” Dorothea gasps softly, her voice raw and cracking. She lifts her face to look at him, and dimly he notes the fresh tear tracks that streak her ashen cheeks. “Hubert, I — we tried — “

Her voice breaks. 

He knows he should say something to reassure her. Nothing comes to mind. 

The silence is long and awful.

“It was Catherine,” whispers Dorothea finally, as though Hubert hadn’t already deduced that. Thunderbrand leaves distinctive marks.

Distantly, he wonders how it happened. Did Dorothea deplete her ranged tomes, forcing them to engage up close? Did Ferdinand charge in without waiting for reinforcements? Did Shamir hesitate to strike down her old partner, even confronted with the burning evidence of her monstrosity?

He doesn’t ask. It doesn’t matter now. 

“He—” Dorothea begins.

“—we chose war,” Hubert interrupts, hearing his own cold voice as though from far away. “There were always going to be casualties.”

Dorothea stares up at him, her hollow eyes hurt and confused. 

Hubert reaches into the breast of his jacket, withdrawing his letter. It’s a little wet from the rain and worse, the envelope smelling of smoke and sweat and blood. 

“Hubie,” Dorothea whispers.

“I’d advise you to rest while you can, Miss Arnault,” says Hubert’s voice. “Her Majesty’s entourage will depart for the capital as soon as General Eisner is fit to travel.” 

“Hubert.”

Dorothea is more insistent this time, a flash of something — anger? concern? — in her eyes.

Hubert drops the envelope on Ferdinand’s chest; it lands crooked and slides into the crook between his arm and his sundered torso. Before Dorothea can stop him or say anything more, Hubert turns on his heel and leaves.

As he walks, the weak morning sun passes behind the clouds, and Hubert feels his world fade back to familiar patterns of shadow and light, colorless and plain and empty. He doesn’t think of warm, amber eyes across the wrought-iron table in the dahlia garden at Garreg Mach. He doesn’t think of earnest debate in the Council Room or fond teasing in his office, of writing a new world into being together. He doesn’t think of soft, smiling lips or the words they’ll never form.

Instead, Hubert seeks out Jeritza and returns to his work, retreating into unfeeling diligence. It is what he’s always known. If he thought briefly he might know more — well, that is his foolishness to contend with. 

(And yet, when he finally returns to his tent, he will find the kettle and twin cups he set out a day and a lifetime ago, and he will not rise from his knees until Lady Edelgard finds him and pulls his shaking form into her arms, where he will come undone.)

* * *

_ I leave the medium to your discretion, and ask only that you give your response promptly.  _

_ I think we can both agree we have waited quite enough. _

_ Ever yours, _

_ Hubert von Vestra _


End file.
